Behind the Courtesan

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “Does it still look so bad?” Blake asked, trying to twist his body so he could see halfway around his own back.

  Sophia shook her head. It certainly wasn’t his healing ribs that made heat pool in her middle when she touched his warm skin. The man was built for hard labor and it showed in every inch of his muscular frame, tight skin and tanned arms.

  She was in trouble.

  “Is it safe to ask what you’re thinking?” Blake said quietly.

  Her arms wrapped around his waist, passing the bandage from one hand to the other. The deep breath she inhaled was full of Blake’s scent and it didn’t give her the space she needed to come up with a good lie. “Uh, the bridge.”

  “The bridge?”

  “I was wondering why Fred comes to you about the bridge and not the duke.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Sophie. He comes to me because I’ve lived here forever.”

  “He values your opinion more than that of a fellow villager.”

  “He, much the same as the others, couldn’t make a decision if the answers were written in stone before their very eyes.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, unconvinced.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You need to work on your lying skills.”

  “Not a trait I would like to become known for,” he commented. “Do you lie very often?”

  “It’s almost a prerequisite for living in the city. And yes, I know when to fabricate, when to reveal and when to bluff.”

  “You sound like the perfect card player.”

  “Life in London is a gamble.”

  “I thought it was oh-so-glamorous.”

  “Those were your words, not mine.”

  “You truly do enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “It?” Her hands stilled, the beat of her heart was the only sound to fill her ears.

  “Living in the city.”

  She exhaled in a whoosh accompanied by a shaky laugh.

  “What did you think I was asking you about?” Blake said, a wounded hint to his tone.

  Sophia lifted her eyes to his and half shrugged.

  It took a moment, but then full realization filled his eyes and he edged out of her reach. “Oh, good God, no. That I do not want to know about. Daemon is my, uh, friend of sorts. You are my... Please don’t say any more words.”

  You are my... What? What was she? Their awkward truce and close proximity meant that their friendship might be back on track, but full friends? The way they used to be? Sophia wasn’t even sure that was possible. The fact that she wanted to jump into his lap each time he took his shirt off was bad news. Add to that, the fact that his smell and taste still lingered in all her senses.

  She had to think of something else. Perhaps provoke him into another fight, go back to the way things were before the accident. She certainly had to see less of his naked body and find a way to keep her hands to herself. She should have told him about Daemon then and there, but it was neither the time nor the place nor any of his business.

  “I thought you said you barely knew the Duke of St. Ives?” At least that’s how she remembered that conversation. She had just hit her head and had the fright of her life when the subject had been broached.

  “He has stayed at the inn a time or two.”

  “Why?” In the few years they’d been intimate, Daemon had never mentioned traveling to Blakiston or business with either duke, current or previous.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know what goes on between one duke or another.”

  “You could at least try to be convincing.” She chuckled. She doubted a thing happened within ten miles that Blake didn’t hear of eventually. She would have to ask Daemon about his connection to the area. He didn’t have to tell her everything, but she didn’t like surprises and coincidences ranked even lower.

  “If we’re done here, I have the books to go over.”

  With her head in the clouds, she’d almost forgotten he sat without his shirt. She had to stop doing it to herself. Had to stop the feast for her visual senses. Perhaps keeping busy, finding something else to do with her hands, would help.

  If only there was an easy way to turn off her thoughts.

  * * *

  By day seven of their agreement, Sophia had the kitchen running smoother than ever with the help of Dominic’s sister, Maria. Despite what the townsfolk had previously thought of a courtesan cooking their dinner, her confrontation with the women seemed to have significantly thawed most attitudes. Offers for help flowed from all quarters of the village.

  If only they didn’t flow from the Duke of Blakiston. He was an ever-present thorn in her side. Every day he’d come and every day she’d taken tea with him, chatted, exchanged niceties until her cheeks hurt from the effort of forcing smiles. She should have tried harder to discourage him, to make it plain she didn’t wish for his company, or his sly questions and barely concealed innuendo. In the back of her mind she knew she only did it because Blake hated his attention to her. The moment Blakiston stepped into the tavern, Blake turned surly, childish, angry, and for some reason, Sophia enjoyed baiting him.

  She did not enjoy Blakiston. He was relatively nice, on the outside, but on the inside, there was something not quite right. She had hoped talking about Daemon and the chores constantly that he would give up on her and leave, but that never happened. She could not risk making a most powerful enemy by turning him bluntly away.

  And so she found herself pouring tea, talking of the weather and wishing her gown rose all the way to her neck rather than just above her décolletage. It didn’t matter what she wore, the duke always looked at her as though she were naked.

  “What have you planned for this evening?” he asked with his customary lecherous grin on Friday morning.

  “Oh, this and that. You know how it is when you are running a business.” Every chance she had, she reminded him that she worked. Whether it was the tavern or her life as a courtesan, she worked. Hard.

  “Why are you running this business still? Surely with your...capabilities?” He paused, drew out the moment until Sophia wanted to grab it in her hand and shove it down his throat, and then finally he continued. “This is so beneath you.”

  Sophia shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what station you are born to, Your Grace, when a friend is in dire need, you offer your hand and help.”

  “But this? What would St. Ives say?”

  She nearly bit the end of her tongue off to stop the reply she longed to slap him with. She was her own woman. St. Ives had never owned her. “He would roll up his sleeves and lend a hand, I’m sure.” Another lie.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled, picking his tea cup up and sipping loudly. He had the table manners of a pig.

  “What are your plans, Your Grace?”

  “There is a barn dance this evening that I thought to attend, but if you won’t be there, I mightn’t bother.”

  “Do you usually attend such events?” she asked as though it should have been beneath him. She would bet her favorite bonnet barn dances were not his thing.

  “Every now and then the people must see me as a person. They have to think me their friend otherwise their loyalties will start to slide.”

  “Slide where?”

  “It doesn’t matter where. An estate is not productive if the inhabitants do not have the proper respect and fear of their leader.”

  She almost choked on her tea. Fear yes. Respect? Never. She’d heard the ‘inhabitants’ of the village talk about their duke and none of it was nice.

  “You don’t agree?” he asked.

  “Of course, Your Grace, what would I know about the internal mechanics of village life?”

  “Well, you did used to reside here, did you not?”

  “That was a long time ago. I am much more accustomed to city life now.”

  “So you’re not back to stay?”

  “Only one more week, hopefully.” Which was a lie but she didn’t want to give Blakiston an accounting of her movements. The b
aby could come tomorrow or it could come in three weeks. But then what? For the moment Matthew wanted her there, but what about after the birth? It’s not as if Matthew or Violet would need her. Blake, however, did. He still couldn’t lift a pot or chop fire wood or make beds. But even her usefulness at the inn would come to end when he was healed.

  “St. Ives will be thrilled to have you back, I’m sure.”

  The statement held more questions than any other Blakiston had uttered so far and she wondered whether to answer or feign innocence.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry or be impertinent.”

  She almost snorted.

  “You have to understand I’m curious to know what he thinks of his lady love rusticating in the country while he stalks around the city on his own.”

  “I hardly think one such as St. Ives stalks, Your Grace. As to our understanding, that’s none of your business or anyone else’s.” Even though most of the ton thought it theirs. Her name had been mentioned so many times in the gossip pages, she’d given up writing angry letters to the editor. She was very happy the columnists hadn’t yet heard the news that she and St. Ives had parted ways. She had a feeling Blakiston would have been so much more dogged in his pursuit of her if he had been armed with the knowledge.

  “I understand. I’m sorry to pry. Please say you’ll accompany me to the dance.”

  “Too late, Blakiston. Sophie has agreed to accompany me to the dance.”

  Blake stepped into the room without knocking on the closed door first. “I have?” she asked.

  “Provided you finish the chores. We can’t have you enjoying yourself too much.”

  Her jaw dropped and she just stared. Was he serious or was he baiting the duke to rise to her aid?

  The duke didn’t bother standing, just looked Blake up and down and twisted his lips. “You don’t look injured at all.”

  “And you don’t look like a barn dancer.”

  Blakiston shrugged. “A man can change his habits, especially when there is a beautiful woman involved.”

  “Perhaps,” Blake mused.

  He looked as if he would speak again, but Sophia beat him to it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. There are chores to be done if I’m to dance this evening.”

  Over her dead body. She would drag out the chores until the rooster crowed on Sunday if she had to.

  Barn dances and public engagements with women and children were not places she wanted to be. Blake and Blakiston fighting over her as though she were a trophy to be had and men staring at her would only add to her discomfort. She would probably trip over her own feet and break her neck. There would be no dancing for her. Not with a tavern owner or a duke.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I think I left something on the stove, we had better turn around and check.” Words Sophia had never thought to utter under usual circumstances. Her knees almost knocked together beneath her dull gray gown, she was so frightened.

  “You did not leave anything on the stove. You didn’t leave the axe anywhere near the path where someone could fall over it in the dark and for the last time, the piglets will not starve if you are not there.”

  Sophia grimaced. She was out of excuses but so far none of them had worked anyway.

  In the end, she’d dressed in her plainest gown, tied her hair back in a simple knot, squared her shoulders and stepped from her room.

  When she considered how terrified she was on the carriage ride to Blakiston, how she feared a pitchfork-bearing, stone-throwing crowd, this was worse. Far worse. Even though Blake had only just handed her down from the cart, Sophia already felt the eyes of the judgmental, the frowns of the disapproving and the sharp sting of rejection.

  She inhaled until she felt it all the way to her stomach and then exhaled slowly.

  “You will be fine. You are Sophie Martin. If you remember that, you will be more than fine.” Blake squeezed her hand and towed her toward a barn where music, laughter and light spilled out into the wet night. As much as she didn’t want to go inside, they couldn’t stand there waiting for it to rain. Even the elements worked against her.

  “I can’t do this, Blake.”

  “Can’t go into a room full of people enjoying themselves? Or can’t be Sophie Martin?”

  She bit her bottom lip. She wasn’t Sophie Martin anymore and they both knew it. She was, however, no longer Sophia Martin either. She hovered somewhere in the middle of an e and an a.

  Of one fact she was most certain. She wasn’t a frightened mouse. She was a woman who had fled her domineering, greedy father to start her life anew still bleeding and battered from the ordeal. She was a woman who stood on her own two feet and didn’t let anyone or anything concern her. Least of all a silly little barn dance.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  It didn’t matter how many times she told herself, she couldn’t quite believe the words.

  As Blake pulled her through the wide doorway, Sophie tried to pull back, tried to come up with a plan, another excuse, anything, but by then it was too late.

  It seemed every face in the room turned toward her, her breath hitched, her mouth dried and she actually flinched, hiding her face behind Blake’s shoulder.

  Before she had a chance to process what happened, why no stone bit her skin, why no nasty whispers reached her ears, she was folded into the embrace of more women than she could count. Men kissed her cheeks, ladies squeezed her hand and a whole village thanked her for being there for Blake when he needed help. Some thanked her for keeping Blake out of the kitchen, some thanked her for cooking delicious meals and others thanked her for a friendly smile over a soup bowl. Even Annie smiled in her direction.

  Finally, after being passed around the room, she ended up next to her brother.

  “Did you do this?” Sophie asked.

  “I had nothing to do with any of it.”

  “It must have been Blake then?”

  “You still can’t see it can you?”

  “See what?” She turned to him, to search his face for that which he hadn’t said, but then Blake brought a very heavily pregnant Violet to join their conversation.

  She had to change the subject before she blushed. “Violet, Matthew let you come?”

  Matthew groaned, “Not you too.”

  “We reached a compromise,” Violet said. “This is the last time I will be allowed to leave the house. For anything.”

  “Just until the child is born and then you can go anywhere you want. I just can’t have you out of my sight in case anything happens.” Matthew’s eyes held so much love, so much concern, Sophie had to look away.

  Violet spoiled for an argument. “Women have borne children in fields in the open since the dawn of time. Mary lay down in a dirty barn. In other countries babies are born in filthy huts on the floor, on the decks of ships and worse. I will be fine and so will our child.”

  “I don’t think you will win this fight, Matty.” Blake clapped his friend on the shoulder hard enough to warn him to drop it and Sophie coughed to cover her laughter. “The women have the upper hand.”

  “Shall we dance?” Blake’s eyes told her he wanted to, but she wasn’t sure if he asked because he didn’t want her to stand with her back to the wall all night. There wasn’t a man here whose wife would let him dance with her, good wishes notwithstanding.

  “Let me ask again. Sophie, I want to dance with you.”

  “That wasn’t a question,” she murmured as the blush she feared warmed her cheeks.

  “Then I don’t need you to say yes.” With that, he took her hand and dragged her to the middle of the straw-covered floor, her hem twisting about her ankles.

  “You shouldn’t do this,” she told him.

  “Why not?”

  “You are supposed to be injured, for one.”

  He shrugged. “I feel much better already.”

  The music began and in all the places, of all the songs, it was a waltz. In a barn. In the country.

&n
bsp; As the first lilting strains filled the timber barn, Blake stepped toward her, took her hand in his and with his other, pulled her toward him, closer and then closer again. “You’re safe here. Have fun.”

  Right now, right there, everything was perfect. Or perhaps that was the ale talking. She’d lost count of those too. As Blake swung her from one end of the crowd to the other, the courtesan extraordinaire actually laughed with real pleasure. She didn’t have to force merriment on this night. The simple knot that tethered her curls to her nape loosened until her black hair shook free and swished around her shoulders and still she laughed.

  * * *

  She was gorgeous. Blake couldn’t tell her in words just how much she had helped him over the past week but he could make sure she had a night of fun. Everywhere he looked he saw his friends delighted at the way she had rushed to his aid. More than cooking and running his inn, she’d kept everyone happy until he was better and could return to doing what he enjoyed. He owed her this night.

  His problem now was, he loved having her there. He enjoyed watching Sophie work. He wasn’t taking a perverse satisfaction out of seeing her break her back; Dominic was doing all the heavy lifting, but it was nice to see the pleasure in her smile when a recipe came together or when she’d helped a sow deliver her piglets.

  Blake tamped down that line of thought. He’d fallen in love with her once before and it was not going to happen again. It couldn’t. He’d only just survived when she’d left by putting one foot in front of the other, taking more beatings for his “soft” heart and sullenness. Until he’d grown bigger than his uncle. By then he was beyond being upset. Blake long ago had hardened his heart to love, to family and to women. They were nothing but trouble.

  Beautiful trouble, he thought as he watched the curve of Sophie’s throat as she laughed, felt the whisper of her silky hair over his hand when he turned her.

  “May I cut in?”

  Blake stopped so suddenly, he had to tighten his grip on his dance partner to stop her from falling to the floor. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy, Blakiston?”

  “It doesn’t appear so, no.”

  Blake dropped Sophie’s hand, his own fist clenched, ready to set the duke on his arse for interrupting possibly the best moment of his life. When Blakiston’s mouth stretched into a vile grin, Blake wanted to wipe it from his face with the back of his hand. Or perhaps a pistol. At dawn.